


Bryant and May

by Mertiya



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, bit of egregious sap, occasional fluff out of left field
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As John tries to help Sherlock cope with an emotional trauma, someone else readies to use that trauma for their own sick game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> If you squint, the intent of this is to slot in with canon between Scandal and Hounds. It *does* mean reading events in Scandal rather differently, however, so if you prefer to see it as AU, that works too. I came up with this idea after somebody on tvtropes pointed out how utterly creepy it was that Irene drugs Sherlock and it is all basically played for laughs; Lestrade films it, etc.
> 
> Many thanks to bauglir3, who let me bully him into beta-ing, and Kyle, for his undying support.
> 
> Also, I used Ariane DeVere's incomparable episode transcripts to help me with some of the lines taken directly from the show. They can be found here: http://callie-ariane.tumblr.com/post/22590940502/sherlock-transcripts

            There was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

            At first, John had assumed it was Irene’s apparent death, and after that, her miraculous revival, her betrayal, her subsequent and quite final—disappearance from Sherlock’s life.

            But if that were the case, surely Sherlock would be over it by now? Maybe not; John honestly couldn’t say he understood his friend to the degree required to make such a diagnosis.  And yet…

            Sherlock’s black moods had turned blacker, more frequent.  He was up all night, composing strange, jangling tunes that did peculiar things to John’s insides in a most unpleasant fashion.  John was certain he hadn’t had more than two hours of sleep a night for the past week.  And possibly more troubling, Sherlock, who had never had much concept of personal space, now seemed to flinch away from the simplest touch.

            Oh, it was nothing terribly overt.  In fact, it was subtle enough that John hadn’t recognized the pattern immediately.  Might not have noticed it at all, in fact.  He had assumed that Sherlock was just, well, being Sherlock.  Sliding away from a friendly pat on the shoulder because he’d left an important experiment without supervision too long was so like him.  Even reeling backward from Molly when she got too close wasn’t that far outside the norm for him.  But yesterday—

            Yesterday John had returned earlier than he’d expected from his afternoon walk, when a most unpleasant thunderstorm had appeared suddenly.  He had been caught without his umbrella and had hurried back to the flat, soaking and bad-tempered, only to find that Mrs. Hudson had stripped all of the towels from his bathroom for no apparent reason.  Grumbling to himself, he’d yelled upstairs to ask Sherlock if he could borrow a towel, and, when there was no answer, stumbled up the steps to the next floor, dripping and irritated.

            The door to Sherlock’s bathroom was ajar, and the light was on.  John shoved it open and discovered Sherlock standing, wrapped in a towel, with his back to the door.  The shower was still running, and his dark, curly hair was damp and matted to his head.  Something else John had noticed, almost without realizing he had noticed it, was the increased frequency of showers.  When Sherlock wasn’t on the violin or manically going through his most recent case files, he was generally in the shower.  He usually locked the door, though, so John had not expected to walk in on him.

            “Sherlock,” John said, but his flat-mate didn’t appear to hear him, so John crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder.

            The result was spectacular, though not in a positive way.  Sherlock staggered backward with a shout, crashing into John and knocking both of them off their feet.  Even John’s combat reflexes weren’t fast enough to prevent the resultant disaster of tangled limbs. 

            “Are you all right?” he asked with concern, but Sherlock was already extricating himself and backing away.  John opened his mouth to make an idiotic crack about clumsiness, when he saw the look of pure panic that passed swiftly across Sherlock’s face.  His friend was breathing hard—too hard.  The breaths he was taking were too shallow.    “Sherlock?” John’s medical instincts began to take over, and he noted the trembling in the usually-steady hands, the way five long fingers were splayed across Sherlock’s throat, almost as if he were choking.  His attention flew to his friend’s eyes, but the pupils, though somewhat constricted, did not appear abnormally so, which partly quieted his fears of a drug relapse.

            “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” he said, getting quickly to his feet.

            “Can’t…breathe…” Sherlock choked out, stumbling backward against the wall.  The towel slipped from his hand, and his head tipped back as he desperately gasped for air.

            John was beside him instantly.  “Calm down,” he instructed Sherlock.  “You’re hyperventilating.”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes up to John’s face.  “I—am not,” he protested, between gasps, and the denial was sufficiently _Sherlock_ to calm the racing of John’s heart slightly, but not enough to put him at his ease.  He almost reached out a comforting hand to touch Sherlock’s shoulder, but fortunately thought better of it immediately.

            It took nearly half an hour to get Sherlock to breathe properly.  John wanted to give him a sedative, but, for some reason, he refused to countenance it.  The anxiety threatened to return at the suggestion, and John finally had to leave it alone or risk another panic attack.

            Yes, panic attack.

            Sherlock Holmes had had a panic attack.  Now John was sitting outside his bedroom door, where the man had locked himself in either this morning or late last night, after John had fallen asleep on the sofa outside.  He was in two minds as to whether he should knock on the door and demand entry, or whether he should just sit here, wait outside, useless, the thoughts going round and round in his head.

            There was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.  Not for the first time, John wished he had half the intellect of his best friend.  He was certain he had all the pieces, or enough of them to make a deduction, at least.  Staying up till all hours—well, that was just Sherlock, but more than usual.  So, insomnia, perhaps, rather than his usual simple disdain of bodily weakness.  Insomnia, or nightmares, perhaps.  John had certainly stayed awake on certain nights himself to avoid what he thought he would dream about if he fell asleep.

            He tried to martial his thoughts, which kept spinning around, too distracted by worry to reach a satisfactory conclusion.  Sherlock’s deep, serious voice resounded in his head.  _Will caring about them help save them?_... _Then I shall continue not to make that mistake._

            But how could you not care about the most important person in the world to you?

            John rocked back and forth on the couch in frustration.  All right, he was no Sherlock.  But he _was_ a doctor, and a damned good one, if he said so himself.  So treat Sherlock like any other patient. 

            Symptoms?  Insomnia and/or nightmares.  An obsession with showering or keeping himself clean—very strange for the man who, returning from a harrowing chase through the sewers covered in questionable substances, had flung himself immediately into an experiment on the optimal growing conditions of a particular kind of algae, without even bothering to towel himself off.  An aversion to touch so strong that John’s hand on his shoulder could trigger the symptoms of what he couldn’t deny had looked like a panic attack.

            Chilling fragments of diagnosis began to float through John’s skull.  _Post-traumatic stress disorder often presents with nightmares and panic attacks, sometimes with flashbacks so severe as to be crippling…_

_…Survivors of sexual assault and rape frequently develop an aversion to even the simplest touch…_

            But it was impossible, John told himself sternly.  These symptoms had manifested comparatively recently; he had been with Sherlock for a preponderance of the time, and, in any case, how could something like _that_ have gone _unnoticed_?  It just wasn’t possible.  Far more likely that Sherlock had been experimenting with some new drug on the side.

            He was jerked from his reverie by the sound of a heavy thud and a shout from the bedroom.  There was a crash as his ankle caught the coffee table as he leaped to his feet.  “Sherlock!” he shouted, pounding on the door.  “Sherlock, let me in!”

            There was no response.

 


	2. Red

            Motion.  Rocking darkness and the sensation of choking.  Brain trying to analyze.  Thoughts broken, chasing each other.  _I’ve used it on loads of my friends._

Observation:  can’t think, can’t trust senses.  Conclusion:  drugged.  Analysis comforting for a moment, but it slips away.

            Hot fabric around him.  _You’ll be all right in here, Sherlock.  Just sleep it off._

            Constricted, arms unmoving, trapped.  The swathing fabric becomes a shroud, and he is desperate to remove it.  Sound of laughter, distorted as if through a low-quality microphone.  _This film is going to be making the rounds.  Sally will laugh herself sick._

_Oh, come on.  Leave him alone_.  Defender.  His.  His defender, his loyal soldier-knight.  Flash of the lined face he knows so well, but still distorted, lined and smeared with darkness around it.  Darkness all along the round cheeks—or is it blood?  Can’t be blood, safe, got the bomb jacket off, Moriarty left.  Moriarty, consulting criminal.  Phone with incriminating pictures—there’s something there, but he can’t hold onto the thought.  It falls away, like all the others.

            Hands on his hands.  _It’s going to be okay.  You’ll be fine in the morning._

He tries to grip the hands, but his fingers don’t respond, too heavy to move.  Tries to speak, but he can’t find the words, or the name.  By the time _John_ comes to his tongue, the hands are gone, and he’s alone, on a bed that shifts nauseatingly beneath him, and thoughts that don’t follow, don’t make sense, surrounded by chilling impossibility, an Escher’s maze that goes on and on.

            Stomach churning, unpleasant sensation.  He’ll be fine in the morning.  He trusts that.  Knows it is true, because whoever said it would never lie to him.

            Unpleasant smell, sickly taste of perfume.  It’s rank and reminds him, not of death and decay, but of a lily-pond overgrown with choking weeds.  Weight beside him.  _Open your eyes, darling_.

            Are his eyes closed?  Hot breath on his ear.  Unpleasantly moist.  _Go on, open them.  For me._

            He struggles with the heavy lids, the voice compelling.  Light spears into his head, and he groans.  His stomach is sickly, hands and limbs too heavy and solid, but his vision is almost clear.  There’s a face above him, female, round, sharp-eyed.  She’s wearing his coat.  _Did you miss me?_

            His eyes track her form automatically as she moves from the bed, shrugs his coat off easily.  Still wearing nothing underneath, but her body undulates slightly, rippling as if there is a worm beneath her ill-fitting skin.  Other than that, it is aesthetically pleasing, and, just as this morning, he feels tightness pooling in his stomach in an unwelcome reaction to her nudity.  Unlike this morning, he is unable to distance himself, unable to control it with the bed shaking so violently around him, and he groans.  Earthquake?

            On the bed, soft voice in his ear.  Bed falling away, deep into the rabbit-hole.  Rabbit-hole?  Lewis Carroll, pedophile.  Unsolved murder from the 1950s.  Scene expanding from the whole-cloth, woven reality on a tapestry; he can see the threads.  Car, hiker, boomerang; all his observations explained to him in an amused female voice speaking in his ear, while his body writhes and moves without his control, heat burning a path through him, nose to groin, terrifying.

            _What a naughty boy._   Voice, amused.  Fingers trail across his forehead, down his throat, leaving heat and pain in their wake.  Unpleasant.  Unpleasant, unwelcome sensation.  Don’t touch me. 

            _God, you’re gorgeous_.  Moist, clinging sensation on his forehead.  Lips.  Moving downwards, tongue tracing across his ear.  He tries to throw her off, but his body jerks, tight, tightness in his trousers, and painful.  Lips, gentle, cloying, on his throat.  Sensation twined with nausea shoots up from his stomach to his throat; he tries to protest, but the only sound that he hears is a jumbled groan from barely-parted lips.

            _You like that, don’t you?_

            No, he doesn’t.  There’s agony between his legs, his stomach feels sick, but his body is still reacting, and it’s as if his brain is walled off.  He’s never considered the physical part of himself, ignored it whenever possible, but now, for the first time, he wants it back, wants it under his control. 

            Something sliding down his stomach, snake or slug—no, it’s a hand.  His eyes open—were they closed?—and all he sees is her bright, mocking eyes, hard pennies in her hollow skull, burning with flame as her hand is burning him, trailing down his stomach, below his stomach, onto—

            He writhes, and the bed churns sickeningly once more.  Pain diminishes a little, replaced by nausea.  _Don’t touch me_.  Never liked touch, this kind of touch, furtive and fleeting, only when necessary to clear the mind, only his own fingers. 

            _Beautiful.  Is what he told me true—are you a virgin?  Or have you and your silly pet doctor explored this?_   Pleasure seeping through, concentrating him on her hand, and that makes it worse, because something about him is enjoying this nightmare. 

            Hand—gone.  Gasp of relief, voice murmuring in his head like a river.  Anger, helplessness.  Then it’s her mouth.  Sensation shooting up his spine, and he’s trembling.  He tries once again to move, to sit up and throw her off, but his limbs are heavy as lead and won’t obey him.  Body doesn’t want to obey him; he’s ignored it for too long.  His hips move and shift; he tries to find an anchor, but it’s all moving as rapidly as sand sinking through an hourglass.  Dirt and mud all around, and he’s drowning in it, stomach constricting as his hips jerk up, and someone is moaning, gasping, all the noises and mess of a human mid-coitus, one of the more easily-despisable situations.

            Rising heat, fingers clenching.  _Come for me, Sherlock._

            The no is stillborn on his heavy lips, washed away on a torrent of uncontrollable, inimical sensation—he shudders and shouts and is split open beneath her.

            Still not over, throat muscles constricting around him, tongue lathing across him, now painful again, almost a relief.  There’s moisture trickling down his face; he’s sick and shamed and hollow, reaching for anger but finding none, no strength, nothing.  Mouth gone, body pounding, nausea rising again.

            _Thanks for a lovely evening_.

            Gone.  Room empty.  Now he can move again, now he can roll to one side, half-fall out of the bed, because the floor is still moving, but he needs—needs a shower, needs clean, hot water. 

            John is there, now, touching him _don’t touch me_ helping him back to bed.  _I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone_.

            Flash of panic, gone quickly, subsiding beneath thought of John, seeing him like this, but John doesn’t seem to notice, and then he’s lying on the bed again, face squashed into the mattress, covers up around him, and he’s hollow and empty and gone.  He wants to throw up, but remaining logic tells him such a purge would be superficial, and he sinks away to darkness and disturbing dreams.

            When he opens his eyes, it begins again.

 


	3. Touch

            “Sherlock, if you don’t open this door right now, I’m going to break it down!”

            Still no response.

            John apologized mentally to Mrs. Hudson, then drew back a foot and kicked at the door, directly beneath the handle.  There was a cracking noise, and the lock shattered easily.  Thanking his army training, he hurried into the room, where Sherlock was sitting up on the bed, trembling and clearly disoriented.  John hurried to his side, remembering just in time not to touch him.

            “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

            Sherlock ran one long-fingered hand through his curly hair, which was matted with sweat.  “Nothing,” he grunted after a moment.

            “Bullshit.  Try again.”

            Sherlock hissed a long breath through his nose and looked away stubbornly.  John sighed.  “Sherlock, come on.  I’m a doctor.  I’m not going to judge you or scold you, I just want to know what’s wrong.  Did something happen?  Did you—experiment with a new drug?”

            Sherlock’s eyes slid over him, pausing for an instant on his hands and mouth, and John swallowed, convulsively and nervously.  Finally, the penetrating gaze settled on his face.  “No,” Sherlock said.  “I had a bad dream.  That’s all.”

            John raised his eyebrows.  “Were you having a bad dream earlier?  In the shower?  Because modesty is one thing, but you were—well, terrified.”  He was suddenly struck with how awkward and strange it was to see Sherlock afraid. “I’d better look you over again; could be something left over from that case last week.”

            Sherlock huffed.  “I can assure you, John, it is no such thing.  Just an unfortunate reaction to an...unpleasant incident.”

            John felt a wary tightening in his stomach, and the earlier diagnosis began to flutter warningly in the back of his head.  “Maybe,” he said.  “But this has been going on for awhile now, and I don’t think it’s getting better, do you?”

            Sherlock didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then grunted, which John took to be assent. 

            This was bad.  This was tricky and difficult, and he didn’t want to screw anything up.  Sherlock wasn’t good with emotions at the best of times, but trying to deal with an emotional _problem_ , no matter how reasonable, or expected—this wasn’t going to be easy.  Which meant, of course, that it was up to him.  As usual.

            He took a deep breath.  “OK,” he said.  “Think about it this way, Sherlock.  If you had a cold, you’d let me treat it, right?”  Sherlock glared at him, and John hastily added, “So that it wouldn’t get in the way of your work.”  There was a long moment, and, finally, Sherlock nodded.

            “OK,” John said again.  God, this was exhausting and frightening.  He wasn’t a trained psychiatrist, but as he already knew there was no chance of getting Sherlock to see a specialist, he resigned himself to being the next best thing.  “That’s all we’re doing.  Trying to work out how we can stop these symptoms so that you can get back to not being distracted from your work, and so you don’t spill coffee all over Molly’s sweater again.”

            “The sweater was hideous,” Sherlock muttered, but gave a brief, tight nod. 

            “You said this was a reaction to something,” John said.

            “Yes.”

            “Is it OK if I ask you what it’s a reaction to?”

            Sherlock’s full lips thinned, but John couldn’t tell if the reaction was one of anger or fear.  There was silence again, and Sherlock’s hand crept along the covers of the bed, stopping just short of John’s, almost as if he wanted to take it.  John swallowed, but he didn’t move, and, after a moment, Sherlock spoke again.

            “Do you recall the evening I was drugged?”

            “Um…”

            Sherlock frowned impatiently.  “By The Woman, not by that idiot with the syringe of morphine.  Barely touched me.”

            “Yes, I do.”  John suppressed the urge to ask what that had to do with anything.

            “You will also remember that she returned my coat the same evening, while I was alone.”

            “Yes.”  John felt bile rising in the back of his throat, but he forced it back.  This wasn’t—he didn’t have confirmation—

            “She remained for what I believe was approximately half an hour, although my sense of time cannot be said to have been reliable.  During that time, she performed fellatio on me, and, under the circumstances, I was unable to protest.”

            _Jesus Christ._   John had killed men; as long as there was a sufficiently compelling ethical reason, it had never bothered him.  He didn’t want to kill Irene Adler; he wanted to dismember her, preferably one joint at a time. He wanted to watch her scream and know that he was the reason, wanted her to beg for mercy and _not to give it_.  He nearly choked on the sudden strength of his feelings.

            “I’m not sure why it’s affecting me so strongly,” Sherlock continued, in his driest voice, and John felt his lungs constrict almost painfully.  “It was humiliating, true, but it was nothing but a—physical interaction.”

            John wanted nothing more than to put his arms around Sherlock and hold him, but he couldn’t do that at the best of times.  “It’s not just that,” he said, finally.  “God, Sherlock, I—” His voice was shaking.

            “I am aware of your propensity to overdramatize such things, which is why I hadn’t told—”

            “I’m not overdramatizing.”  John’s voice was quiet.  “And if I ever see that bitch again, I will put a bullet right between her eyes.  That’s a promise.”  He sighed.  He was so far out of his depth right now it was a wonder he wasn’t drowning.  “Sherlock, this isn’t the kind of thing I’m trained to deal with.  You’d be better off seeing a psychologist, or—”

            “No.”

            “Sherlock.”

            “John, you’re my doctor, and that will not change.  I will not—I cannot—No.”

            John started to get up, then sat back down.  “Damn it,” he mumbled.  “Damn it.  All right.  I’ll do my best.  But you have to _talk_ to me, Sherlock.  I know you don’t like talking about things, I know you don’t feel like this should be a big deal, but you have to talk to me about this, because otherwise I can’t help.  And that’s not an option.”

            Sherlock didn’t move.

            “Are we clear?” John asked, and he was rewarded with a slight, small nod.  Sherlock reached out and, very gingerly, touched the sleeve of his jumper.  “OK.”  Bloody hell, was that the only thing he was capable of saying?  “So, here’s what I think.  I’ll do my best to tell you what’s wrong, and why it’s happening, and I’ll ask you if that’s right.  Then I’ll make suggestions about ways we can deal with this, and we’ll see if any of those seem like they’ll help. I’m going to be very clear about this, because I think you need to know you’re in control of it.  All right?”

            Sherlock nodded again, impatiently.  “I’m not a child, John.”

            Typical.  He was clearly expecting this problem to clear up and go away as soon as John had had a crack at it.  Come to think of it, it was a little flattering—a little shocking.  It took away John’s breath, the faith that Sherlock had in him.  He squared his shoulders.  Right.  Better not let that faith down then.

            “I think the biggest issue is control.  You need to be in control of situations, Sherlock, and she took that away from you.  I imagine you would have been a little shaken by the experience even if she hadn’t—”  There was that rage boiling up again, but he shoved it back down.  It wouldn’t help Sherlock now.

            Sherlock nodded.  “Control.  Yes.”

            “But it’s not _just_ that, Sherlock.  Did you have a physical reaction?”

            “I climaxed, if that’s what you mean.”

            John carefully ignored the heat building in his cheeks and along the back of his neck, and the rage still boiling in his stomach.  “Then you might be experiencing some confusion and shame.  It’s perfectly natural to have your body respond like that, but it can feel like a betrayal.  You might blame yourself.”

            “Don’t talk nonsense,” Sherlock said.  “You know perfectly well I’m incapable of such an irrational reaction.”  But his eyes slid away from John’s.

            _Don’t push it_.  John made a noncommittal _mmmm_ noise.  “The biggest one seems to be control.  You’re afraid to sleep because you—do you have nightmares?”

            Sherlock pressed his lips together again.  “I relive the incident.  It’s unpleasant and confusing.  It leaves me disoriented and impairs my ability to concentrate on my work.”

            “Right, that’s perfectly—”  John stopped short of saying _normal_ , because that wouldn’t be a word Sherlock would welcome at this point.  “—it’s expected.  Experiences like this have a way of taking hold of your memories.  So you don’t want to sleep, because it—” _is traumatic and horrifying_ “—interferes with your cognitive abilities.  That means losing control of things you value.  You don’t like people touching you because you’ve associated that with the loss of control in the first place.  Like I said, I’m not really qualified in this area, but it seems to me that if you can convince your subconscious that you’re in control, you should have a shot at making this less—debilitating.  I know one of the ways to treat—”  _PTSD_   “—this kind of problem is called ‘Exposure Therapy’, and I’d think it would be something you’d—well, you’d respond to well.  Particularly since the root of your problem has to do with a loss of control.”

            Sherlock simply waited, displaying surprising patience for once, and again John was struck with a sudden desire to just enfold him in his arms.  Instead, he continued speaking.  “Basically, you’re trying to avoid this.  You’re trying to wall it off and make it go away, by cutting off everything that reminds you of it, and it isn’t working.”

            Ignoring Sherlock’s muttered, “ _Well, it should,_ ” he pressed on.  “So we’ll try the opposite.  Do all the things that upset you, that cause anxiety, a physical reaction.  But we’ll get you to do them in a situation that isn’t threatening, so you’ll know that you’re in control of it.  So you’ll regain control over the situation.”

             “You think I ought to receive oral sex from someone else?”

            John sputtered.  “No, Sherlock, god no.”

            “You said to do _all_ the things that upset me.”

            “OK.  Yes.  Well.  I was being imprecise.  I am _allowed_ to be imprecise, Sherlock.”

            “It’s hardly my fault if you can’t specify.”

            John found himself running his hands across his face.  Only Sherlock Holmes could make him feel this particular combination of desperate worry mixed with utter irritation.  “Let’s start simple,” he said.  “Touch me.”

            “Touch you.”

            “Touch me.  Anywhere you like.  Wherever feels least threatening.  Whatever helps you feel as if you’re in control of the situation.”

            Sherlock looked as if he were about to make another snide remark, but he appeared to control himself, his lips opening slightly for a moment and then closing again.  His eyes raked over John, who felt a most unaccountable urge to blush, but stifled it, or hoped he did.  Slowly, the lanky detective slid his hand the remaining few inches across the bed covers until their pinkies were lined up and touching. 

            Gingerly, the he raised his pinky finger and hooked it over John’s.

            “OK?”

            “I’m…fine,” Sherlock said, in a strange voice John couldn’t quite read.

            “Great, good.  Excellent.  So.  We’ll keep this up then.  And the chats.  Better keep up with the chats as well.”


	4. Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading! Readers make life worthwhile! =D

            Molly Hooper hovered nervously around the edge of the slab in the morgue.  The hurried phone conversation she had had, early in the morning, with John Watson, had left her feeling vaguely ill and very worried about Sherlock.  She’d known something was off, but she had thought it was just him being, well, him.  Now here was John giving dire hints about something really bad having happened, and he probably wouldn’t have done that if Lestrade hadn’t been in pretty dire need of some assistance.  Sherlock and John had been somewhat noticeably absent for the last two weeks.

            She wished John had told her more, but Sherlock would be angry enough if he knew she knew anything.  _Act normal_ , John had encouraged her, which she supposed meant try to flirt awkwardly and watch as Sherlock completely ignored (or didn’t even see) her efforts.

            When he walked in, she felt her stomach do a flip.  He was as dreamy as ever, his high cheekbones maybe even a bit more pronounced than usual.  He strode across the morgue without a break in his stride, John trailing behind him.

            “Show me,” he snapped, and Molly’s fingers shivered as his deep voice seemed to reach inside and tug at her heartstrings.  Sometimes she wished she had a recording of his voice.  She could just play it while she was alone in her flat, and—

            “ _Molly_.”  He was looming over her.  Right.  _Snap out of it, girl._   Sherlock hesitatingly put out a hand, gingerly dragged one finger across her shoulder, and she tried not to react, though she felt a bit like fainting.  John had told her he was having some problems, and she should let him touch her if he felt like it, but she shouldn’t touch him unless he asked her.  Just the _thought_ of Sherlock asking her touch him made her feel weak at the knees, but she swallowed and let him place a hand briefly on her shoulder, and then pulled back the sheet hiding the body Lestrade had sent him to examine.

            John made an _er-hem_ noise, which was his “Be polite, Sherlock,” noise, but the detective was already absorbed in looking over the body.  John gave her an apologetic glance and mouthed _,_ “Thank you,” but Molly was used to Sherlock ignoring her.  Honestly, most people ignored her; at least with Sherlock, it didn’t feel so bad, because he ignored everyone.  _Except John_ , whispered a treacherous little voice in the back of her head, which she chose to ignore.

            “Cause of death?” snapped Sherlock.

            “He drowned.  The building he was found in flooded with water from the rain, and he was probably, well, passed out, so he just drowned.”

            “Passed out from what?”

            “Tests showed a high level of heroin in his bloodstream.”

            Sherlock turned to her, clearly about to ask another question, but at that moment, the door opened, and Lestrade entered.  “For god’s sake, don’t run off before I’ve finished telling you the details of the case!” he snapped.

            “You were taking too long,” Sherlock responded calmly, and John said _er-hem_ again, but Sherlock continued to ignore him.  Very slowly and obviously, John reached toward Sherlock’s arm.  Molly watched as Sherlock’s muscles tightened visibly.  He allowed John’s hand to rest on his elbow for about a quarter of a second before shying away as if compelled.  “Tell me now,” he commanded Lestrade.

            “As I was trying to tell you,” Lestrade said.  “We’re trying to track down a drug supplier.  We’re very interested in a Mr. Richard Whittacker, but so far he’s come up clean.  We found this gentleman on Mr. Whittacker’s property, but he’s clearly homeless.  The owner disclaims all knowledge; we’ve got nothing to prove otherwise.”

            Sherlock glanced back at the corpse.  “Homeless?”

            “Er, yeah?”

            “Hardly.  Hair’s professionally cut, his toenails have been manicured at some point not long ago.”

            Lestrade shrugged.  “Then an unfortunate druggie, I guess, though why he’d be wearing those clothes…”

            “Really, Lestrade.  Whoever he was, he wasn’t a habitual drug user.  Furthermore, these aren’t his clothes.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            Sherlock snorted, in a way Molly found most reassuring, although now that John had alerted her, she could hear the extra edge his voice seemed to have acquired.  How had she not noticed this?  And what had _happened_?  John was hovering behind him like a mother hen; well, he always did, a bit, but more than usual right now.

            “The victim has a bit of sticking plaster on his throat where he cut himself shaving—another point against your ‘homeless’ theory—which has been pulled partly off by the neck of the jumper.  No one leaves a plaster like that; it’s uncomfortable and someone who has a haircut like that wouldn’t want to take the risk of getting blood on his clothes.  Must I continue?”

            Lestrade rolled his eyes.  “Well, who do _you_ think he is, then?”

            Sherlock shrugged.  “I have no idea, beyond the fact that he’s Russian, recently arrived in England, and probably a recently unemployed violist or violinist.”

            “I’m not going to flatter your ego by asking—”

            Sherlock sighed.  “Even you ought to be able to see the distinctive calluses from playing the aforementioned instruments, but I won’t belabor the point.”

            Lestrade raised his eyebrows, as if to say _Are you ill?_ but didn’t press him.  “I’ll get you the files,” he said instead.

            “Thank god.”  Sherlock nodded his head.  “I was going out of my mind with boredom.”

            “I’ll just go get those for you then,” Lestrade said, rolling his eyes again, but smiling a little.

            “Thanks!” John put in, and Sherlock rolled his eyes sideways and gave him his patented _That was unnecessary_ look.  Good lord, did everyone communicate by glance these days, Molly thought.  Lestrade left, John trailing after him after Sherlock looked at him, yet _again_ , presumably with the intent of _go get those for me_.

            Molly suddenly found herself alone in the room with Sherlock, who had begun pacing back and forth, muttering to himself.  She got the distinct feeling he’d forgotten about her.  “Um?  Coffee?” she squeaked.  She’d long ago stopped bothering actually asking him out, as he never seemed to pick up on it, but she quite liked getting coffee for him all the same.  Sherlock spun on his heel to face her, and his thick, expressive brows drew together.  Molly quailed.

            “Miss Hooper.”

            “Er, yes?”

            “While I’m aware that you always seem to flutter around, you seem especially—careful—around me today.”  He leaned toward her, until they were almost nose to nose, and Molly could feel his breath on her mouth.  “Care to explain?”

            She made a noise like _mlph!_ , and jumped backward.  “I, er.”

            “Furthermore, you’ve been fingering something in the right-hand pocket of your jeans, which is where you keep your mobile.  Given that, and the covert glances you have been giving both me and John, I deduce that you had a phone call this morning, warning you that I haven’t been quite myself lately.”

            Molly gave him what she hoped was a bland, _I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about_ smile.

            There was a pause.  Then, “Whatever you were told, I don’t need your pity,” he spat, and Molly took a step backward.  Sherlock swirled around dramatically and planted his elbows against the wall angrily.

            Molly had a feeling if she didn’t say anything, John was going to be left in a very difficult position later.  On the other hand, her track record for saying the right thing, even in non-Sherlock-related quandaries, wasn’t particularly high.  On the _other_ other hand…

            “He didn’t say much,” she said quietly.  “He just said you were a bit upset, and he was worried, that’s all.  I should’ve noticed it myself, but, um, I’m—”  _incredibly distracted by how sexy you are and honestly it makes me a bad friend_ “—not that observant, really.”

            Sherlock waved a hand at her, but she wasn’t sure what the gesture meant.  “I just thought you should know,” she continued.  “We’re your friends.  We don’t pity you, we just, we worry about you.  John was trying to help, and I’d like to help, and I know you like to say you’re above sentiment and all that, but everyone has off days, you know?  And, well, if there’s anything I can do, I mean, there probably isn’t, but you can _ask_ …”

            Sherlock made another disgruntled noise, then turned back toward her.  “Yes, all right,” he said.  “Touch me.”

            THUD.  Molly’s heart in her chest.  _I’m dreaming.  I’ve gone mad.  This is it, I’ve finally snapped._   “Er.  What?”

            “It’s hardly a difficult request.  Touch me, touch my face or my hand.”

            “Um, all right.”  She swallowed, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest.  It was awfully difficult to make her arm move, as if it were suddenly made of metal and rusted down, but she did it.  She raised her hand desperately slowly, and then slowed it even further, partly because she was afraid, but partly because of what John had said.  She wanted to show Sherlock she wasn’t a threat, and, quite suddenly, the paralyzing awareness of Sherlock’s complete gorgeousness fell away, and this was just her friend, who’d asked her for a favor.  She raised her hand slowly and reached for one of his cheekbones, intending to rest three fingers on his face for half a minute.  Before she could quite complete the motion, a flash of utter panic went across Sherlock’s face, and one arm shot up and caught her wrist.  She uttered a short cry of pain as he batted her hand away, and, even then, noticed that he held on for a bare minimum, before sinking back against the wall, breathing hard.

            Molly stood with her hands at her sides, feeling useless, wondering if she ought to leave, because surely no one except maybe John should be seeing Sherlock’s face when he looked like _that_.

            After another long minute, Sherlock exhaled slowly and strode toward the door.  He paused for a minute, looked back at her, and said in precise tones, “Thank you.  For trying.”

            Then he left, and Molly found herself trying very hard not to cry.

~

            Crash!

            “Sherlock, for god’s sake!”  John was upset with him.  He didn’t want to upset John.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have sent so many saucers flying at the wall, but the way he was feeling right now, surely a few saucers was a small price to pay?

            “It isn’t _working_!” he growled in frustration.

            “Sherlock, it’s been _two weeks_!  You can’t expect to recover instantly!”

            “It’s been months since the incident!”

            “Months that you’ve spent avoiding this whole thing!  Making no progress at all!”

            “I couldn’t even let Molly touch me.  _Molly_ ,” he snarled.  This was the height of ignominy.  Not even being able to bear the touch of the least harmful specimen of humanity he had ever come into contact with.

            He flung himself into the chair in front of the refrigerator, and felt John come up beside him.  “You are getting better, you know,” John said calmly.  “You’ve let me touch you several times without freaking out.  Even on bare skin.”

            “It’s not _enough_.  I can’t concentrate on this case, and I’m still having nightmares.”

            “Sherlock, it will take time.”

            “How much more time must I waste?”

            John’s response was a little tight, but calm.  “It’s not time wasted, Sherlock.  You need to heal.”

            “I wouldn’t _need to heal_ if you hadn’t left me alone when under the effects of an unknown drug!” spat Sherlock.  There was a sharp, sudden intake of breath beside him. “John, I—”

            But John had pushed himself backward away from the table.  Both his fists were clenched, and his eyes had turned away from Sherlock, his face suddenly cold and blank.  Before he could say anything else, protest that he hadn’t meant it that way (was there anyone else he would try to take his own words back for?), John had turned, waved a hand in his direction (but Sherlock couldn’t read it, couldn’t understand how John had suddenly become a mystery to him, a terrible enigma of bunched, tightened muscles and foreign movements) and exited the room without a word.

            Sherlock started to get up, to follow him, when he was suddenly assaulted by a roaring in his ears.  Dizziness swept across him as his breathing shortened and shallowed, and the panic attack caught him suddenly, forced him back down onto the table, gasping for breath, frozen, unable to move.

            By the time he recovered, John was long since gone.


	5. Tea

            “He just wants the impossible.  And I don’t mind that.  I’d do it, I’d do the impossible if he asked me to.  God help me, I’d walk through fire and mud and _sin_ for him, but I can’t stand to see him in this much pain and have it be my fault!”  Molly made a sympathetic little clucking noise, and John smiled wanly at her.  “Sorry for interrupting your bath.”

            “It doesn’t matter.”  Molly had pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but she hadn’t had time to blow-dry her hair, so that water was slowly-but-surely soaking through her grey shirt.  “I wasn’t going to be doing much this evening, anyway.”

            He wasn’t sure why he’d called her.  He just hadn’t been able to stand the idea of being alone and had called with the vague idea of coming round and chatting about little nothings (how many dead bodies did you see today?), but somehow he was saying things to her he’d never have dreamed of saying to anyone.  Probably stress.  The last few months had left him more on edge than he’d realized, and now…

            “Damn it,” he said angrily.  “I want to make it better.  I _want_ to be able to wave a magic wand and make it all better, and I can’t, and he blames me, which I could deal with if I weren’t blaming myself just as much.”

            Molly worried at a nail with her teeth.  John hoped vaguely that wasn’t a habit she took to work with her.

            “I want to help too, you know,” she said softly.  She’d made them both a cup of tea—the old British standby in times of trouble—and now they were sitting at the kitchen table in her tiny, two-room flat.  “But honestly, if you can’t do anything, what hope have _I_ got?”

            “He does care about you, as much as anyone, I think,” John answered.  _He would never have asked you to touch him, no matter how harmless he thought you were, if he hadn’t considered you a friend on some level_.  “I probably shouldn’t have left him.”

            “Mmm.”  Molly pulled a sympathetic face.  “I’m not much of a listener, honestly.  I’m not really very good at much of anything.  Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to…” she trailed off, laughing nervously.

            “It’s OK.  The tea’s good.”  John’s general embarrassment at having gone to someone else for comfort was trying to reassert itself, but he was too worried about Sherlock for it to be occupying a central spot on his emotional radar.  Well, since he was here anyway, might as well go in for a pound as for a penny.  “Got any advice?”

            “I dunno,” Molly said.  “You haven’t given me that much to go on, which is fine by the way.  You know him better than anyone, you know.  He gives you this look, sometimes, when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching.”  She shrugged when John looked at her.  “He doesn’t always notice that I’m watching.  He really—I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him look at anyone else the same.  It’s a _good_ look, but it’s weird.  It’s sort of—it’s a bit the way he looks at his violin.  I saw him play once; Lestrade bullied him into it for a Christmas party.  At first he was really awkward and prickly—his version of performance anxiety, I expect—but as he got into it, you could see that the violin was the only thing he noticed in the whole world.  The only thing that was really _real_ to him.  That’s what you’re like for him.”  She paused and crinkled up her nose, took a sip of her tea.  “So, I guess, just keep trying, and he’ll come round eventually.  And I’m around you know, if you need to talk or just have somebody make you some tea.  I’m good at making tea.”

            “Mmm.”  John felt as if she had it backwards.  That was how _he_ looked at _Sherlock_ , not how Sherlock looked at him.  But there wasn’t any reason for her—well, maybe she was right.  He tried to ignore the wild surging excitement in his stomach, as this really wasn’t the time to be acting like a schoolboy.  He needed to get Sherlock fixed up, somehow unbreak what he’d broken.  He could worry about how Sherlock looked at him when he’d done that.

            “I’d better get going,” he said.  “Thanks for the tea.”

            “Anytime,” Molly smiled.  “Take care.”

            He paused at the door of her flat.  “Thanks for talking.”

            It was a dark, rainy night, and he hadn’t brought an umbrella, but he thought he’d sort of rather be soaking wet and cold anyway.

~

            Sherlock was pacing.  John hadn’t come back yet.  He’d been away far too long.  Just one ill-thought-out comment from Sherlock, and he’d practically vanished from the face of the earth.  He ground the heel of his palm against his forehead in frustration.  Why was he so preoccupied with John?  He’d come back; he always came back.  He would be much better to focus on the case, or on his own—problem.

            He didn’t blame John, wasn’t even sure why he had lashed out.  He growled beneath his breath.  He needed to understand what was wrong with him.  Sentiment.  Weakness.  All the things that he despised, and they were springing up from inside himself.  He put his hands on the back of a chair and briefly considered up-ending it, but eventually came to the conclusion that without John here, he would have to put it back himself, and the notion did not appeal.  Instead, he flung himself into it and wished he knew what John had done with his cigarettes _this_ time.

            Right.  Time to stop messing about and come to a conclusion.  If he couldn’t think about the case (and he couldn’t seem to concentrate on it; it slid away and out of the sides of his mind in a most peculiar and frustrating way), then he’d have to solve the other mystery.

            Control, John had said—yes, that was certainly part of it.  His inability to move or react, to tell the Woman strenuously _No thank you, I am most certainly not interested_ , had been damaging.  It probably accounted for why he still couldn’t stand to have anyone else touch him, not even Molly-bloody-Hooper.  Even the modicum of control he was forced to give up, to _allow_ someone else to touch him, was as impossible as asking him to fly, as asking him not to think.  He steepled his hands together and breathed out.  But what John was doing should have reassured him that he was in control.  Besides, the whole thing was totally illogical.  The only reason he hadn’t been in control that night was because the Woman had caught him off guard (which still stung, yes, but certainly wasn’t something that was likely to happen again) and flooded his system with a drug that he was not prepared to deal with.

            Why, then, did it return to haunt him, continually, without end?  He was _in control_ now.  No.  There must be something else.  He had saved her life—was he feeling remorse for that? A desire for revenge?  No, because, curiously enough, that had _been_ his revenge, the final culmination of _her_ weakness, and _his_ strength.  He had beaten her, and then he had saved her.  An attempt to further assert the control he had felt he had lost.

            It couldn’t simply be the control issue.  Had to think about this logically.  Had to _force_ himself back to that night and find, somewhere in the muted shreds of his consciousness, what he was missing.  He felt sweat beginning to collect on his forehead and upper lip, but he deliberately forced himself to take deep breaths.  His body _would_ obey him in this matter.

            In between the—physical sensations—yes, there was shame. He ought to have been able to control himself better.  Or distance himself from what had been, after all, a purely physical reaction.  But something else, still, hiding from him, burrowing down into the center of his brain in a way which was most uncalled for, most unusual, and most infuriating.  Some other reason, some fragment of a thought—

            The unwelcome feel of the Woman’s lips sending that uncontrollable frisson up his spine had been accompanied by a thought, an angry thought.  More than angry.  But _what had it been?_  If he could, without panicking, think his way back into the mindset—yes, almost there—

            The door banged, and Sherlock jerked upright in the chair.  “John?” he called out.

            “It’s me, love!”  Mrs. Hudson’s voice called out.  “Has John gone out?  I’ve brought him some more of that tea he likes!”

            Footsteps on the stairs—the slight uneven cadence.  “I take it your hip is giving you trouble again?”

            “I’m afraid so.  How _do_ you always know these things, Sherlock dear?  Shall I put the tea in the kitchen?”

            “Go ahead.”  Where else would one put tea, after all?  The bedroom?  “Mrs. Hudson…”  He stopped.  What was he doing?  Asking his _landlady_ for emotional advice?  But John was not here, and there was no one else to ask.

            “Yes, dear?”  She fluttered into the room and gave him a smile, slightly forced.  John had told her too, then, at least as much as he had told Molly.  Unsurprising. 

            “I have a question.”

            “Just as long as it’s not about where your cigarettes are.  I promised John faithfully I wouldn’t tell, and it’s not good for you.”

            “No.  It’s not the cigarettes,” Sherlock cut in.  Mrs. Hudson could talk for hours if she was allowed to get started.  “It’s something to do with a—case.  Emotional reactions aren’t really my forte, as you know.”

            “Of course, dear.”

            Sherlock got the uncomfortable feeling that Mrs. Hudson knew that what he was asking had nothing—directly—to do with a case, but he decided to continue anyway.  It would be significantly more suspicious to stop now.  “Hypothetically speaking, if someone kissed you and you found it distasteful, why might that be?  Emotionally speaking.”

            There was a pause, and he found he didn’t dare look at her, unsure what _she_ might be able to deduce from his face.  Was this what everyone else felt when they were around him?  If so, it was most disagreeable.  He briefly considered whether there were some way to make it less so, then snorted.  The day he started worrying about people’s feelings was the day he would be entirely incapable of detecting, and then, he supposed he might as well be dead.

            “There are a few reasons, I suppose,” Mrs. Hudson said, and he wished he could see how her face was moving, but he couldn’t afford to let her see how his was moving.  It had been so desperately outside of his control lately.  “I might not feel that way about the person, or maybe I just think they’re a terrible kisser.  Maybe I didn’t feel like doing any kissing that day at all.”

            He heard rustling as she headed to the kitchen with the shopping bags and allowed himself to look up.  “Anything else?”

            “Well, I suppose.  Maybe I wanted someone _else_ to be kissing me.”

            That had been no help, Sherlock ruminated, as she headed back downstairs.  He wasn’t sure why he had thought it might be.  As he turned back, disgusted, to the coffee table scattered with case-files, he realized that, unsuccessful as he had been at solving his own problem, he now had a good idea of the solution to the crime he was working on, and he felt an unexpectedly violent stab of disgust as the knowledge rocketed through his brain.

            He got up and headed for the stairs.  He couldn’t wait for John any longer.

~

            When John got back, the first thing he noticed was that Sherlock’s coat and scarf were gone from their respective pegs.  So he wasn’t completely unobservant.  The thought made him smile faintly.  “Mrs. Hudson, do you know where Sherlock is?” he asked, popping his head into the downstairs parlor.

            “No idea, sorry.  He just went flying out the door.  You know the way he does.”

            Yes, John knew.  He wasn’t sure he liked it, though.  He fished for his mobile and swore when his fingers closed on air.  No wonder he hadn’t had a text from Sherlock; he must have left his phone at Molly’s.  He popped his head back into the downstairs parlor.  “Mrs. Hudson, can I borrow your mobile?”

            “If you like, dear.  It’s in my bag.”

            After locating it, he typed out and sent a few texts.

            To Molly:  _Think I left my mobile at your flat.  Can I pick it up sometime?_

To Greg:  _Have you seen him?_

To Sherlock:  _Where are you?  Left my mobile somewhere._

            Then he headed upstairs, wondering if he should go out again.  There was a growing sick conviction in his stomach that he should never have left his friend.  He told himself sternly that he was being stupid, Sherlock was a grown man.  That it hadn’t been his fault.  Not that he believed that last one.  He began to put together a few bits and pieces for dinner and berated himself yet again for leaving Sherlock alone in his room that night.

            Mrs. Hudson’s phone vibrated.

            From Molly:  _Found it.  I could run it over for you, if you like._

            From Lestrade:  _He came by a bit ago, asking for a few more of the case files.  Haven’t seen him since, I’m afraid.  How’s he doing?_

            From Sherlock:  nothing.

            John spent another ten minutes trying to concentrate on dinner.  When he realized he’d poured a generous helping of sugar over the fish-sticks, he gave a frustrated noise, got his coat, and headed out.

            To Molly:  _Don’t bother.  I’ll come by myself._

            To Greg:  _Just text me if you see him._

To Sherlock:  _Where the hell are you?_

            Halfway out the door.

            From Molly:  _Are you OK?_

From Greg:  _Will do.  Are you OK?_

From Sherlock:  nothing.

            John headed back in, got his army pistol, headed out again.

            Molly met him at the door to her flat and mutely handed him his mobile, which had a few new texts, but they were all an hour or so old.

            _Where are you?  -SH_

_I want dinner.  Are you coming back?  -SH_

_I’m sorry.  –SH_

            John bent over in the cold air.  He’d half-run to get here, and he was panting.  He thanked Molly and headed out again.  Didn’t bother texting this time, just called.  Sherlock’s phone kicked him straight to voicemail.  Damn, damn, damn.

            Where next?  _He’ll come back_ , the voice in his head tried to reassure him.  _He’ll be back by 2 am.  3 am at the latest._   He didn’t usually stay out all night.  Had John made it worse by leaving?  He found that he was groaning, which was rather a stupid thing to do.  He’d stop by Lestrade’s office, if he was still in.  Come to think of it, it was rather late for Lestrade to be in.  The case must be serious, or possibly coming to a head.

            Getting off the tube, he called Sherlock’s mobile again, but he still only got voicemail.  God, Greg was going to think he was spastic when he saw him.  Sherlock had gone out—had probably been out for less time than _he_ had, and here he was, going all across London to try and find him, like the female lead in some dull romantic comedy.

            He had his hand raised to knock on Greg’s office door when it hit him, like a bloody epiphany.  _Fucking hell, I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes._

So much for “not gay”.


	6. Black

            Sickly scent and the taste of bile in his mouth, easily identifiable.  Chloroform.  He opened his eyes to darkness and felt the brush of silk across his face.  Blindfold.  As the haze of the chloroform wore off, he ran through the events that had led up to this in his head.  He had stopped at Lestrade’s office, but refused to give him the details of the case; for once in his life he hadn’t been certain.  Had been afraid that the unusual emotions he had felt in connection with this particular case had blinded him. 

            Clearly, that had been a mistake.  He tried to ignore the mortification rising over him, the frustration, the desperation that somehow, he had let the incident affect him to the point where he had lost control of the situation again.  His breathing began to hitch, but he managed to remember the breathing exercises John had suggested to him, and it steadied.

            He had headed for the property where he suspected it would be possible to find proof of his suspicions, but he had never arrived. How long ago?  Impossible to know.  A single dose of chloroform was one thing, but repeated applications might have kept him under for hours, even days. He had made it to the tube station and then—nothing.  Memory infuriatingly blank.  Either he had noticed nothing (unlikely, but, he had to admit, conceivable), or the chloroform had induced short-term memory loss (certainly possible).  The fact that he had been captured at all, and that his captor had drugged him (the only possible way of stopping him from knowing precisely where he was) brought forward a niggling suspicion he had dismissed as irrelevant (and obsessive, whispered the John-voice in the back of his head).  But this had been too well-executed, so he was prepared when the lilting voice spoke, echoing slightly in the small (must be about three square meters, stone or concrete walls and floor) room.

            “Sherlock, my dear, and how are you doing this fine day?”

            “It’s hardly a fine day, with that much rain and wind.  Though I appear to be dry, for which I thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.”  Movement behind him, sudden brush of fingers down the back of his neck.  His hairs rose, and he jerked involuntarily, but the ropes that bound him were tight.  It would be especially difficult to extricate himself since he had been unconscious while being bound, something which Moriarty was no doubt aware of.

            “Surprised to see me?” Moriarty crooned, and his breath traveled, moist and hot, down beneath Sherlock’s collar.  “Of course I use the term ‘see’ loosely.”

            “I am never surprised to see you where crime is concerned,” Sherlock responded, in his driest voice, trying to conceal the odd hitch in his breath, though he strongly suspected it would be useless.

            “An old friend tipped me off,” whispered Moriarty; something wet brushed along the top of Sherlock’s ear.  “You don’t like this sort of thing, do you?  Losing control…I have to admit, I’d worked that out myself.  I hadn’t expected…to find that you were _primed_ for this, though.”  Fingers tugged at his hair, and he could feel the familiar choking sensation as his airflow diminished, not through any outside agency, but through the treachery of his own body.  “Primed to be broken,” Moriarty hissed, and he felt a pinprick on the left side of his neck, simultaneous with a kiss on the right.

            Dizziness, disorientation, strange sense of dissociation with his own limbs; he recognized the symptoms immediately.  “No…heroin…then?” he panted out from between parted lips.  “But then I suppose you’re not trying to dispose of any evidence, are you?”

            Hands behind him were undoing the bindings about his wrists.  “I told him it was stupid,” Moriarty murmured.  “Too flashy, too melodramatic.  Thumbing his nose at the police would be one thing, but thumbing his nose at _you_ —well, only _I_ can get away with that.”

            Sherlock tried to wrench his hands free, but the wave of dizziness stopped him; one arm flopped wildly, and the other didn’t respond at all.  A higher dosage, then.  Moriarty tutted.  “Now, now, mustn’t fight,” he said.  “You didn’t fight _her_.”

            The blindfold came off next.  He blinked to clear his eyes against the sudden blinding light, and the room wavered in front of him.  Walls all one color, as far as he could tell; no windows.  Rippling oblong in the corner.  Something familiar about the space—not sure he could place it.  Drug taking effect again, paralyzing, inhibiting, breaking up thought patterns, spiraling, desperate, no no _no_ …

            Moriarty’s arm beneath his shoulder, lifting him, trying to set him down, but his legs, simply limp, gave out; floor moving toward him.  There was a jarring pain through his body.  Muscles relaxed, though; thus, injuries would be superficial.

            _Careful, Sherlock.  Don’t want you damaging yourself_.

            Upward motion, swirling nausea through his stomach; then lying flat on his back, horrible heaviness returning.  Weight on his stomach, cold hands brushing down his throat, beneath his collar.  Hot breath on his ear, words:  _I’ll make you a deal, Sherlock.  All you have to do is tell me to stop.  One little word.  Just say ‘stop’._

Lips heavy, unmoving.  Tongue a solid, useless block in his mouth. 

            _Shall I stop, Sherlock?  Do you want me to stop?_

            Hot lips on his ear, his throat, his collarbone.  Tongue, unmoving.  Screaming voice in his head, so upset, so emotional, so disgustingly human…

            _Stop_. 

            No sound.

~

            “John, you need to sleep,” Lestrade told him, pausing by the chair where John was slumped forward with his head between his knees.

            “Fuck sleep,” John responded tiredly.  He was sitting in Lestrade’s office, where he had been situated more-or-less continuously for the past thirty-six hours.  Sherlock hadn’t come back.  His mobile remained off.  They had gone through the footage from the security cams and found Sherlock boarding the tube at his favorite stop, but they couldn’t find where he had gotten off.  Somewhere along the line, he had vanished. 

            “Would you like another coffee?”  Molly was a godsend, John thought tiredly.  She had been hovering beside him, making coffee like a barista, almost since they had confirmed that Sherlock was probably missing.

            John was still holding onto a faint hope that this was all one of Sherlock’s almighty sulks, maybe his poor-spirited idea of an elaborate joke.  John wasn’t sure, if that turned out to be true, whether he would hug Sherlock or punch him once he saw him again.  Probably both, to be honest.  Sherlock did seem to be accepting touch from John, if not well, at least better than from anyone else, in that he could accept it at all.

            “John, we’re doing everything we can,” said Lestrade, and John rubbed a hand across his face.  Stubbly.  When was the last time he had seen a razor?  He wanted to get up and roam the streets, calling for Sherlock, even though he knew that wasn’t likely to be of much use.  At least it would be better than sitting here, doing nothing.

            He looked up as an urgent buzzing noise came from the desk.  His phone—how had he forgotten to take it off vibrate?  Instinctively, he reached for it.  _Number blocked._  

            “Hello?” he asked, his voice ragged with hope.

            “J-john, h-help me.”  Sherlock’s voice was broken and— _oh god_ —pleading.  The mobile went dead.  John’s stomach turned over, and before he knew it, he was vomiting into the rubbish-bin underneath Lestrade’s desk, bringing up stomach bile black with coffee grounds.

~

            “J-john, h-help me.”  Sherlock’s voice shook slightly as he spoke.

            “Now hang up.”  The cold metal of the gun barrel pressed against his spine, and he complied, snapping the mobile shut.

            “Are you enjoying this little farce?” he asked Moriarty coldly.

            “Oh, I’m enjoying this immensely.  I particularly liked the tremor in your voice.  You’d have made a great actor, Sherlock Holmes—or maybe you weren’t acting at all, hmmm?”

            “I’m sure you’d like to believe that,” Sherlock drawled, but his voice continued to be a little unsteady.  When he’d managed—at what felt uncomfortably like the last minute—to choke out “Stop,” the rippling grin in front of him had faded.  Another pinprick.  Whatever the second drug was, it had cleared away the symptoms of the first, at least to the extent that he could see and speak; his thoughts were reasonably coherent.           

            “Well, then,” Moriarty said reasonably, brightly, the maddened grin flashing across his features once again.  “Time for round two!”  The cold barrel of the gun scraped round, tracing along the line of Sherlock’s throat, up the carotid artery, along his chin and across his face to his mouth.  “Open up!” Moriarty demanded gleefully, and Sherlock’s mouth opened to let the gun barrel slide inside.

            “Now, here’s the _new_ deal.”            The safety on the gun clicked off, and Sherlock concentrated on not making sudden movements.  Moriarty wouldn’t kill him—that would be far too boring—but accidents had been known to happen.  “If you say ‘stop’, I’ll stop.  I’ll stop _everything_.”  He giggled.  The gun glided back out of Sherlock’s mouth, pressed back in slightly, as Moriarty wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.  Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

            “Melodramatic much?” he queried, in a voice steadied presumably by the touch of cold metal and nothing else.  He stiffened slightly as Moriarty’s fingers brushed his cheekbones and the gun traveled down his throat again, coming to rest on his chest.

            “Tell me, Sherlock.”  Moriarty didn’t bother to conceal his smirk.  “Which do you value more—your control or your doctor?”

            Only the fact Sherlock had already been controlling himself rigidly to avoid any gun-related accidents prevented him from reacting as a wave of unidentified emotion boiled through him like steam.  “You’re bluffing,” he said in a bored voice, but he was already reciting Moriarty’s response in his mind, a response which was voiced only milliseconds later.

            “Possibly,” Moriarty acknowledged.  “Would you like to wager on it?”  The safety clicked on and he set the gun down beneath the bed.  “Think about that when you remember all you have to do is say _sto-op_.”  He elongated the last word, breathing it out with barely a whisper, his lilting voice caressing it like a lover.  Then he rocked back and threw one leg across Sherlock’s body, straddling him.  “How likely is it?” he asked in his best mocking voice.  “How likely is it he has a sniper trained on John?  Well, maybe not very likely.  You weigh the probabilities, Sherlock.”

            He bent forward, as if about to press his lips to Sherlock’s throat, then stopped.  “You know, I’m rather sad.  I feel we missed an opportunity back there.  You could have said something like, ‘that wasn’t the deal!’ and I could have responded, ‘I am altering the deal.  Pray I do not alter it any further.’”  As Sherlock gazed at him in blank incomprehension, Moriarty laughed, further shaking Sherlock’s body, which was already trembling.  “John would have gotten that.  Almost anyone in the world would have gotten that, actually.”

            He leaned forward.  “The Virgin,” he murmured.  “Such bea-u-tiful naivete, don’t you think?”  His lips were moist against the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, and the surge of repulsion was almost enough to override his control over his body.  He could feel his breathing speeding up again, but the sensations prickling across him were no phantoms now, but frighteningly real and horribly clear.

            “Don’t,” Moriarty said, nuzzling at his neck.  His hands dropped to Sherlock’s shirt-front and began to undo the buttons, and he rocked his hips against the detective.  “Don’t breathe too fast, you might pass out.  I might think you wanted—to—stop.”  The last three words were punctuated with thrusts of his hips that made Sherlock hiss through his teeth in agony.

            “Oh, I like that.  I _like_ that.”  Focus, narrowing.  Breaths coming too fast—couldn’t—he forced himself to breathe, long, easy breaths.  Hot feeling building up behind his throat, couldn’t quite identify it yet, but not just the repulsion at anyone touching him, not just that.  “Do that again.”

            “Do what?” he managed through gritted teeth.  There were hands on his stomach, slipping around his waist, lips on his collar-bone, and he was drowning in the filth of it.

            “Make noise.”

            No.  God, no.  This was all wrong.  Not just because he wasn’t in control, but because—because—

            “Or do you want me to _stop_?” 

            The strangled sound that he let slip between his lips was closer to a growl than a gasp, but it seemed to count.  Moriarty’s hands slipped lower, skimming beneath the top of his trousers, and he jerked, involuntarily.

            —because it wasn’t John.

            Moriarty’s hands were on his button, and suddenly, they were unimportant, because there was something much more important in his head.  The final reason, the final piece of the puzzle which had slipped and slid away from him, which he hadn’t grasped; he almost hadn’t wanted to grasp it.  He did not like to be touched, not like this; he did not like to lose control—but if it were John it would be different.  He hadn’t let himself think this because he didn’t understand where it came from; it was not _logical_ , it was not _reasonable_ , but it was _true._

            “Where are you, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked in a sing-song voice.  “I need you _here_ , with _me_.  Or shall I—”

            “You don’t have to say it,” Sherlock cut in tiredly.  “I’m quite aware of the threat by now.  This repetition becomes tedious.”

            “Well, I’d hate to think I was boring you.  Shall we get straight to the good part, then?”

            The small, thin hands (they suited him, those hands; carefully manicured, weak and small, the hands of a mad aristocrat) undid the buckle of Sherlock’s belt, then the button of the trousers and the zipper underneath.  Moriarty leaned forward, and his lips trailed down the center of Sherlock’s chest, eliciting another sound that he didn’t bother to try and keep back, knowing that even if Moriarty discerned the disgust, he would enjoy listening to it. 

            Moriarty’s lips sank lower and lower, and he began to tug at the coarse hair low on Sherlock’s belly.  Almost to the pubic hair, now; there were sensations threading through him again, just as there had been previously, but now he didn’t even have the dazed delirium of the drug to hide behind.  His breaths were coming fast and harsh, and the only reason another panic attack had not set in was because the flashbacks could not be worse than the present.

            Moriarty laughed and lifted his head and rocked against him again.  “Broken yet?” he asked.

            It wasn’t John.  And it should be.  He turned his head away, and Moriarty grabbed his chin painfully and forced him to look back up.

            He heard the sound of an opening door.

            “Get off him, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

            John’s voice.  Like a benediction.

            A lazy smile crossed Moriarty’s lips, and he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock once more, mouthing, “Early, but never mind,” as he slowly put his hands in the air and knelt up on his knees, before carefully getting off the bed. 

            “If only you’d swap your second and third words, Doctor, that’s just exactly what I was trying to do.”

            John made an incoherent sound of rage, but Mycroft’s cool, dry voice interrupted.  “Don’t, Doctor Watson.  I’m afraid I need him.  I think we can take it from here, if you don’t mind.”

            Sherlock sat up carefully as Mycroft’s men led Moriarty out of the room.  His rival, archnemesis, wouldbe rapist glanced back at him and winked, which Sherlock filed away to deal with later.  He was very tired, chemicals still floating around in his bloodstream.  Later would have to do.

            “Jesus.  Sherlock.”  John was at the bed, was standing in front of the bed.  “Sherlock, I’m so fucking sorry.  This—”

            “Not your fault.”

            “But—”

            “Your arrival was most timely.”

            “Jesus,” John groaned again.

            “Congratulations on having forced me to institute the mobile code, as well.  And I’m impressed you picked up on the significance.”

            That got a bit of a smile.  “For god’s sake, Sherlock, I may be an idiot, but I’m the one who came up with that bloody idea in the first place.”

            “Yes,” Sherlock acknowledged.  “It’s a good thing Moriarty was so pleased to be breaking me that he didn’t realize that I don’t stammer without good cause.  I’m glad I was clear enough.”

            John shook his head.  “Clear as water, once I _thought_.  221.  _God_.  I can’t fucking believe he had you here the whole time.”

            “John—”

            “I was looking all over London for you, like a _bloody_ idiot, when you were _here_ , in 221C.”

            “Yes, John, but—”

            “Oh god.”  John covered his face with his hands, then straightened up, forcing the military bearing back into his posture.  “Sorry, Sherlock.  We’d better get you out of here.”

            “No, I’d much rather—can you do me a favor first?”

            A smile.  Forced but still beautiful.  “Of course.”

            “Lean over.”

            “Lean—!  All right.”  Was John’s suggestibility due to exhaustion, guilt, or both?  (Or John just being John?) Ah well.  Irrelevant.  He leaned over.  Perfect.  Sherlock closed the distance between them immediately.  John’s lips tasted of salt and coffee.  The sensation of touch was difficult, but it was _John’s_ touch, and he was _in control_ , and there had, in any case, never been any kissing associated with unpleasant sensory memories.

            John sprang backward.  “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed.

            Sherlock cast around for a way to explain this.  “John, I—”

            John began to pace violently backward and forward.  “Just tell me, Sherlock, _why_?  There’s no bad reason, there’s nothing wrong with anything you could tell me, but please be truthful.  This is important.”

            “Because…I want you.  It wasn’t just lack of control, John.  It was because _they weren’t you_.”  The words passing his lips were foolhardy, he knew; he would probably regret them later.  But whether it was the remnants of the drug still impeding his facilities, or simply the aftermath of the adrenaline, he couldn’t hold back what he knew was the truth. 

            John stopped.

            “I’m sorry if this is unwelcome,” Sherlock continued.  “And I apologize if I’ve offended you.  I’m aware that you’ve repeatedly said you’re—”

            “Bloody hell,” John repeated, softer.  “This is a ridiculous day for epiphanies.”

            “What?” Sherlock asked.

            John knelt in front of him and presented his lips.  “You’d better do it until we figure out the extent of the control issues,” he laughed.

            This probably was not the ideal situation, Sherlock half-undressed on a cot in the basement of Baker Street, with Mycroft and who knew how many Scotland Yard policemen outside.  But John was waiting.

            Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him again.  Salt and coffee and _John_.


	7. Heart

            “Human trafficking.”

            “What!” Lestrade exclaimed.  They were back in 221B; Sherlock was sitting back on the sofa with John beside him.  He had immediately shed his shirt and trousers—almost before the policemen and Mycroft had time to make out of the room—and insisted on a shower.  John had suggested he was stationed outside the door to make Sherlock feel more secure, but Sherlock had declined.  “Nonsense,” he said, and just when John was reminding himself not to feel hurt, because it was Sherlock, after all, he continued.  “I want you to be inside the bathroom.”

            John blinked at him for a minute, opened his mouth, shut it, shrugged.  “All right.”

            Sherlock took a quick shower, toweled himself off, and sent John out to collect him new clothes, which, with the customary lack of foresight about mundane details on his part, he hadn’t brought into the bathroom.  They were now sitting close together on the sofa, almost touching, John suddenly ridiculously, stupidly aware of Sherlock’s damp proximity, of the way his hair clung to his forehead and temples and the nape of his neck.  While Lestrade was sputtering, he had a sudden, silly urge to lean over and plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, but he repressed it.

            There was a movement from the man by his side, and Sherlock unfolded one long arm, put it around John’s shoulders, and drew him close, muscles trembling only slightly.  John made sure not to make any sudden movements, but found himself smiling somewhat uncontrollably.

            Lestrade’s eyebrows went up almost to his hair, but he continued the line of questioning.  “What d’you mean, Sherlock?”

            “Richard Whittacker is involved in both drugs and human trafficking.  I fondly expect you should have no further trouble in pinning both charges and making them stick; I believe he has lost his sponsor.”

            “Going to give me anything else, Sherlock?”

            John found himself leaning into Sherlock, and the hand around his shoulder tightened almost uncomfortably, with a definite air of possessiveness.

            “Very well, though I shouldn’t think it necessary.  He was playing a game, injecting the remaining drugs into his employees, betting you would not be able to figure the connection.  I was unconscionably slow on the uptake this time, primarily because this case—was unexpectedly distasteful to me.”

            John leaned against him harder, wondering how much touch he could take, wondering how much would comfort, how much would be too much.  There was plenty of time to figure it out later, but he wanted to be able to comfort Sherlock now.

            “The body you recovered may have been the next level of his game, but more likely, it was his employer’s attempt to interest me in the case.”

            “You mean Moriarty,” John put in.

            “Obviously.”  John found himself smiling even wider, if that was possible, because Sherlock sounded so much himself, despite what had almost—what he’d interrupted.  His right hand was trembling, that damn tremor returning.  He was almost sick with desire to put a gun against Moriarty’s head and pull the trigger, would have done so if Mycroft hadn’t convinced him that they needed Moriarty, if Mycroft hadn’t repeatedly pulled the ‘saving innocent lives with the information he gives us’ card on him.

            “Look, I don’t want to keep asking you stuff when you’ve been through all this,” Lestrade said kindly.  “Can you send down the details in the morning?”

            “I’m perfectly all right,” Sherlock protested, but Lestrade just shrugged and waved a hand. 

            “Anderson, are you all finished?” he shouted, and Sherlock growled and crushed John against him as the other man entered the room.

            “Finished,” he said.  “But what _I_ want to know is what we all want to know.  Why the freak wasn’t fighting.  Looks to me like you interrupted a liaison.”

            John glanced up at Sherlock, to find his face black and his brows drawn down tightly. 

            “He was drugged,” he pointed out.  “Hard to do much when you can’t move.”

            “He’s moving just fine now,” Anderson sneered.  “Looked as if he was moving just fine back then, too.”  He punctuated his comment with a pair of rather obscene hip motions, and John found himself rising slowly off of the sofa, with one hand reaching for the gun, which he had laid on the table.

            “John.”  Sherlock’s voice was thick, and his hand caught at John’s elbow.  “It’s a good point.”

            John turned to him incredulously.  “Yes, but look, Sherlock, you can’t mean!  He was about to _rape_ you!”

            “Yes, he was.  But now that it’s been brought to your attention, you can’t help but wonder.  I was hoping to explain without an audience, but I’m tired and would very much like Anderson and Lestrade to go away now, _thank you_ , Lestrade, and I can tell they won’t leave until their curiosity is satisfied.”

            “Oh, come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade protested, but Anderson crossed his arms and stared, and he blew out a sigh.  “OK, yes, I’d like to know, but it doesn’t have to be this instant.”

            “He threatened you,” Sherlock said, and he was speaking directly to John.  “I didn’t know if he could make good on his threat; I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious.  I suspect that, yes, the drugs also contributed; it was difficult for me to think clearly.” 

            “He…” John swallowed.  “And you…”

            “Pray do not start blaming yourself again, John.  It’s tedious.”

            “That’s it, Anderson, we’re leaving,” Lestrade said tightly.  “If I hear one more word about this—”

            “OK, OK.”

            Even Anderson had the grace to look a little embarrassed as he and Lestrade left.  John watched them leave, his heart pounding, his fists clenching and unclenching, then turned back to Sherlock and tried his best to put on a bland, calm face.

            “Your left eye is twitching.”

            “What?!”

            “All right, it’s not twitching, but you’re trying too hard.”

            John had to laugh.  His eye might not be twitching, but he could feel the shaking in his right hand starting up again.  He headed back to the couch, and a thought occurred to him.  Stupid.  He was too slow, but then, forty-eight hours without sleep would do that to a person.  Well, to a normal person anyway.  “Sherlock, how are you feeling?  There’s every chance the drugs haven’t worn off properly yet.  Do you think we’d better take you to a hospital and get you checked out?”

            “No.  Absolutely not.”

            “But, Sherlock—”

            “John, there is one thing I think I need rather badly.”

            “Of course.”

            Sherlock leaned forward; John saw the muscles in his arms tense as he took John’s elbow, but it didn’t stop him from drawing John closer and resting his head against the other man’s stomach.  He looked up, raising his eyebrows.  “Let me kiss you again?”

~

            Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, steepling his fingers together as he thought.  He’d let John coax him to watch some crap telly, and by now, his flatmate (something else?  He struggled to find an appropriate word and gave up.  This sort of thing was more John’s area anyway) was asleep, head leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder.  The gentle pressure of John’s head and the soft rise-and-fall of his breathing were calming, but they also reminded him forcibly of how vulnerable John was.  The man could handle himself, of course, but—

            As Sherlock’s mind had cleared (not as swiftly as he might have preferred, perhaps, but quickly enough), it had become increasingly evident that most of Moriarty’s plan had unfolded without a hitch.  John had arrived early, yes, but his arrival, however premature, had been intended.  There could be no other reason for the ease with which Moriarty had been captured.

            But why?  The attempt to ‘break’ Sherlock had been histrionic, though not insincere, but it clearly was not the only thing Moriarty had been aiming at.  Look, then, at the results of the evening, and it became blindingly obvious.  What was the most important result?  John, resting here.  John, being kissed.  John, even more obviously than ever, becoming…

            His mobile vibrated gently in his pocket, and he reached for it, teasing it out slowly so as not to disturb his sleeping companion.  It was a text.  Number blocked.

            _How’s the heart?  ;)_            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people who are still wondering what the deal is with the title, the important thing to realize here is that Bryant & May were a well-known manufacturer of matches, and that I'm way too fond of double-meanings and terrible puns.


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